For the first year in fifty, he hadn't planted a garden, and every time Bill looked out the back window of his cottage, the opportunistic weeds, vines and grasses of the South Carolina Low Country reminded him of his oversight. But he just hadn't felt up to planting and tending his own tomatoes, peanuts and squash through this year's humid growing season, and he had figured that he could buy them all at the market in Bridgefield anyway if he wanted to, although he never did. He didn't seem to want much of anything anymore, when you got right down to it, and he hadn't, really, since his wife Harriet had died, some four years earlier. She'd been five years widowed herself when he met her at Gregorie's Bar and Grill, where he went to drink beer and watch football, and they were married by Preacher Benson at the Baptist church soon afterwards, moving into his cottage on the outskirts of Bridgefield and setting up a home together without any fuss or bother from anyone. Harriet left Bill's life the same way she came into it, simply and suddenly, by just not waking up one morning, slipping away to glory while he slept beside her. He didn't even notice until after he had gotten up and yelled for her several times, to no avail, while cooking their bacon and eggs, which burned in their own grease while he called 911 and talked to the dispatcher, leaving the cottage smelling terrible for a week, at least. Harriet had been a good woman, and Bill missed her. Not like that first wife he'd had, the one who ran away with their daughter and his money, never even bothering to contact him at all, until the day when she needed his signature on the divorce papers so she could marry some banker from up Charleston way. Bill didn't even say a word when that woman (as he thought of her) showed up at his front door holding a manila folder decorated with colorful tabs. He just signed where the arrows told him to sign, closed the screen door to the front porch where she stood, went out back and pulled weeds out of his garden, thinking about how good his peanuts were going to be after he picked them, washed them, boiled them in brine and ate them while watching his game shows. But he hadn't grown any peanuts this year, or tomatoes, or squash, or anything, although he still watched his game shows most every day, and football, when it was in season. Bill had bought some boiled peanuts while watching a football game at Gregorie's a few weeks back, but the nuts were too small and slimy, not like the firm jumbo peanuts he grew himself. Plus, the folks at Gregorie's didn't put the right amount of salt in the brine, and the peanuts themselves had a slight tang of vinegar and mold to them that made Bill think they'd been sitting out in the sun too long before they'd been cooked. He hadn't been back to Gregorie's since then, watching football on his television at home instead, snacking on Vienna sausages and crackers, looking out the window in the back every now and again and shaking his head at how bad his garden looked. Real bad, no two ways around it. Real bad, indeed. ***** On Tuesdays and Fridays, Bill spent more time looking out his front window than the one in the back, watching for Harriet's daughter Anne, who drove down from Charleston to clean the cottage, wash his clothes, check on his medicine and bring him groceries or supplies, as necessary. She'd started taking care of those things after Harriet died, and he'd needed the help during those first few months of grief and readjustment, when he couldn't seem to find the energy or organization to feed and bathe himself, much less take care of the cottage and his cats. By the time he'd gotten to where he could take care of himself, though, he'd decided (without really realizing that he'd done so) that he didn't really want to bother with those things anymore, and he'd feigned continued helplessness just because he looked forward to Anne's visits. Sometimes, he actually left things out or dirtied dishes purposefully, because he knew that would make Anne stay longer. Bill was willing to put up with her chiding him for his carelessness and clutter while she cleaned, because that was better than not having her there at all. Thing was, though, that the longer he had feigned helplessness, the more helpless he had actually become. And over the course of a couple of years, he stopped needing to dirty the cottage intentionally, because it just sort of started happening on its own, without him really thinking much about it. It was easier, for instance, to drop peanut shells by his easy chair than to carry them out to the trash on the porch. And it was easier to leave his clothes on the floor by the bed, so he'd know where they were when he got up in the morning. He'd toss a Vienna sausage or two on the kitchen floor when he opened the can, so the cats would have something to eat, rather than fill the bowls on the porch that Anne had set out for their food. While the cottage deteriorated faster than Anne could keep up with it over the years, Bill had still managed to find the time and energy to keep his garden clean and productive, until this year, that is, when he didn't so much actively decide to not plant it as much as he just sort of missed the time when he should have done so, without really noticing, until it was too late to get it tilled and seeded. He kept telling himself that he'd clean it up and plant next spring, and he told Anne that, too, but neither of them much believed that that was actually going to happen. Bill had four acres of land around the cottage, three of them given over to pine, live oak and Spanish moss, the other one occupied by the garden and a fleet of old cars, tractors, appliances and parts scavenged from and for them. He'd been a mechanic, years ago, before Harriet even, working on the heavy construction equipment that had been used to build the resorts and golf courses that defined most of the South Carolina coast these days. He would come home stained with diesel and grease, and would go straight to work in the garden, when it was in season, until the rich aroma of the soil and the leaves and the fertilizer drove the smell of the shop out of his sinuses. A garden was good like that, Bill had often thought, a place where a man could lose himself for a few hours at a time, a place where a man could forget that he had anyplace else to be, ever. Over the course of each growing season, he'd always gotten to know each plant as an individual: what it liked, how it was getting on with its neighbors, how its fruit tasted, which plants were healthy, which ones were not, what was causing them to be sick, and what might make them better. All told, Bill had always made better friends in his garden than outside of it, with the possible exception of Harriet. Or Anne. ***** "So, I've been thinking . . ." Anne said, as she folded Bill's shirts and he watched The Price is Right, buttering the Hungry Man biscuits Anne had cooked him for lunch. "Mmm hmm," he said, nodding for her to go on, knowing he didn't need to do so for her to continue. "I've been thinking that it's getting too hard for you to stay here by yourself," she said. "And it's getting too hard for me to drive an hour each way to come down to make sure that you're getting on okay. And it's getting on close to November, and this place is a nightmare to heat, it's got so many cracks and holes in it, and I don't want you burning yourself up this winter trying to keep yourself warm with that old space heater." She'd made this point before, and Bill replied as he always did, "I'm doing fine down here, just fine. And this is my home, so where else am I gonna go? A man's gotta have a home, doesn't he?" He paused and thought for a moment. "Besides, I can buy a new space heater if you think this one's getting too old." "It doesn't matter if it's a new one or an old one, what matters is that you put it too close to your bed, and you're gonna light your blankets on fire, or your clothes." "I'll move it, then, if it worries you," Bill said, knowing that he wouldn't. "And besides, where else am I gonna go?" "You could sell this place, and get something nice up in Charleston," Anne suggested. "Ain't nobody gonna want to buy this old place, it needs too much work." "Someone might want it for the land. The land is good, if you'd clean all those old cars off of it. And you could rent a nice apartment up in Charleston, and I could come see you every day, instead of twice a week." "I can't have a garden in an apartment," Bill noted. "You don't have a garden here, anymore, either," Anne said, pointing out the back window at the weeds. "But I could have one if I wanted to." "Do you want to?" "Yeah, sure, of course I do," Bill answered. "Next year, I'll get it cleaned up and grow some peanuts or something again. I'll definitely do that, next year." "If you don't burn yourself up this winter." "I ain't gonna burn myself up this winter . . . I ain't burned myself up before, so why am I gonna burn myself up now?" "For the same reason you throw Vienna sausages on the floor now, and you didn't used to," Anne answered. "Because as much as you don't want to admit it, you're getting older, and I don't think you can take care of yourself here anymore." "This is my home, this is where I belong," Bill said, pausing before he played the trump card that had stopped this argument so many times before. "And besides, this is the place where your mama lived and where she died . . . you want me to just sell it and let someone else live here, sleeping in her room, eating in her kitchen?" Anne stopped her folding and looked up at Bill. He couldn't decide whether she was going to start crying or yelling at him, but he didn't want either thing to happen, so he turned the volume up on the television and looked away, hoping she'd get back to what she'd been working on, or move on to another chore, or find something else to talk about. "You always say that to me, and I guess I've never been brave enough to tell you that, yes, I do want you to leave this house, absolutely yes, I do," Anne said finally. "This house makes me sad. I've been coming down here twice a week for four years, and I cry just about every time I drive home from here, thinking about Mama, and worrying about you. And I haven't wanted to tell you that, because I know it's your home, and I know you want to be here, but I'm just getting tired of the trip, and tired of being sad, and tired of watching you deteriorate here, wondering every time I leave if I'm gonna drive back the next time and find you the same way you found Mama. I can't keep doing it. I just can't. And it's unfair of you to expect me to." "Then don't come, if it's such a burden," Bill said sharply, hearing his own voice sounding shriller than he could ever remember hearing it sound before. "I don't expect nothin' from you. I don't ask you to come down here. I can take care of myself. You just stay up there in Charleston yourself, and I'll stay here, and I'll be fine. You get on home to the city, and leave me to myself, right here. I ain't no cripple, and I ain't no fool. I can take care of myself, and I don't need you telling me otherwise." "Then who's gonna tell you that if I don't?" Anne asked, quietly. "Since it's the truth, and someone needs to tell you that. Who's gonna tell you the truth, if not me? And you know that I can't just stop coming down here, because the only thing that would make me sadder than coming to see you would be not coming to see you, although you don't deserve it, most of the time. So who's gonna tell you the truth, Bill, if it isn't me?" And Bill had no answer to that question, so he turned the volume up on The Price Is Right another notch and wondered how that plain, heavyset blonde on the television had managed to get herself a husband without knowing how much a box of macaroni and cheese cost. ***** Bill had shot a finishing nail into his hand with a staple gun once, and he'd lost the tip of a finger in a fan belt back when he was a young man, and he couldn't count the number of times that he'd burned himself by touching a part of an engine or exhaust that hadn't cooled properly before he got to working on it--but none of those accidents had ever hurt the way that this one did. He'd heard one of his cats crying out back, and had gone out to see what was bothering her, but she'd scooted under the porch as he came out the back door. Bill had gone over to the far side of the porch, leaning way out to see if he could see the cat, at which point he'd lost his balance and fallen awkwardly off the porch's edge. It was only about four feet down to the ground, but he twisted as he fell, landing on his right side with his arm outstretched beneath him. He felt the shoulder pop from its socket when he tried to catch his falling weight, and then something cracked in his hip when his lower body hit the ground. Bill lay still for moment, trying to catch his breath and gather his wits. He was hurt, there was no denying that right from the start, but he didn't realize how bad it was until he tried to turn over and stand. His right arm wouldn't work at all, and the sharp, grinding pain in his hip made it clear that he'd broken something during the fall. He rolled carefully onto his back and shifted as best he could to get his weight off the damaged arm and leg, and then the gravity of his situation hit him--along with another wave of pain--and he vomited, turning his head, coughing and spitting to keep from inhaling the contents of his stomach. He'd never really thought about putting a railing around that back porch he'd built, since it wasn't intended to be a sitting porch as much as it was intended to be a place to store things that were too big to be stored inside the cottage. There was an old ice box up there, for instance, and some tools, and a pump that he'd planned to rebuild so that he could drain the low spot at the back of his property during mosquito season. People had been talking about that West Nile Virus for the past few summers, and he figured that he might want to do something about the bugs, seeing as how he spent so much time outside in the garden, once upon a time. The steps up from ground level to the house were at the other end of the porch, and he didn't think he could drag himself that far, much less pull himself up the steps and into the kitchen to phone for help. Had he fallen off the front porch, someone driving past might have seen him lying there, maybe, but out back, nobody was going to see him, and nobody was going to hear him, no matter how loudly he might call for help. He looked to his left, under the porch, and the cat was there, the one who'd been complaining, back up underneath the house, looking out at him. She meowed plaintively, turned her backside to him, raised her tail and stretched, meowed again. "You in heat, kitty?" he said aloud. "That the problem? Well . . . I'm afraid I can't help you with that. I'm afraid I got some problems of my own, problems that some old tomcat ain't gonna be able to fix for me." He closed his eyes and tried to breathe deeply and think clear. What day was it? He had to count back. Anne had been by yesterday, right? Or was it two days ago. Yes, that was it, it was two days ago. She was here on Tuesday. And now it was Thursday, so she'd be back tomorrow, Friday. It was about five o'clock in the afternoon when he fell, and Anne usually came around ten in the morning or thereabouts, so if he could hold on for, what would that be, sixteen, seventeen hours or so, then she'd be here and she'd know what to do. She'd be able to call for help and get him to a hospital, or get an ambulance out to the cottage, whatever she thought was best. Whatever she thought was best, that's what he'd do. And he cursed out loud at his own stupidity for not doing whatever she had thought was best whenever she'd talked to him about moving up to Charleston. He could be sitting in a warm apartment right now, watching Wheel of Fortune, instead of laying here broken in the dirt, between his ill-built porch and his weed infested garden. He could have gone to bed tonight and planned on getting up tomorrow morning in time to see the reruns of Jeopardy that Channel Six aired at nine and nine thirty, instead of dying out here in the cold overnight, and leaving a corpse for Anne to find when she came to clean up his mess. He turned his head to look at his garden plot. The weeds were thick and robust, stronger looking than anything that he had ever actually planned to grow in the garden. But then, that was the nature of weeds, wasn't it? To grow strong where they weren't wanted, to fight against the peanuts and the tomatoes and the squash, to choke out the competition, to return again and again, no matter how many times you pulled them up from the roots or twisted their tops off. He didn't much care for the weeds, but he sure respected their toughness and industry, and sometimes when his garden was doing well, he'd even leave a particularly interesting looking weed to grow to maturity, just to see what it would look like, what it might turn out to be, although he always took care to cut those lucky misfits back before they could poison the rest of the garden by releasing seeds that spun, flew, popped or jumped every which way when you weren't watching them. There were a few good plants out there in the garden, even now, a few peanuts that he'd left behind to sprout this year, one robust, if frumpy, looking squash plant that might have produced some good fruit, had the slugs not gotten to each blossom as it ripened. Was that a tomato plant on the back side of the garden? He couldn't tell from where he lay, so he closed his eyes and thought about gardens past, and thought about Harriet, and even thought about that woman, who hadn't really been all that bad, back at the beginning, now had she? He'd give anything to have her stop by right now, that's for sure, or to have her in the house where she could hear if he called her. But it would be even better if Anne were in there, or if she would come by sooner than usual for some reason, a surprise visit, just for him. And then his thoughts began to wander farther abroad, to places he wasn't sure he was remembering or imagining, waves of pain and waves of regret washing over unknown strands in uncharted regions of his mind, until his very consciousness itself began to ebb, even as he looked toward his garden, and he thought "I'm cold," and he whispered "help," and the darkness spread before his still opened eyes. ***** "Shhhh . . ." He realized that he'd been screaming, or crying, or screaming and crying, when he heard the first soft whisper from somewhere off to his right. "Shhhh . . . ," again, a raspy whisper, or a low rustle, he couldn't tell which, but he quieted and opened his eyes to see if he could tell where the noise was coming from. Above him he saw the stars, but they were blocked by shadows that seemed to be moving somewhere just above the house. What were they? They were too close to be clouds, weren't they? He blinked his eyes and squinted to focus. Too close to be clouds, definitely. Looked like trees, but they couldn't be trees, either, since the edge of the woods was at least fifty yards away, over on the other side of the garden. But they looked like trees, leaning over him, blocking his view of the sky. And they seemed to be whispering. Then the rustling grew louder off to his right, and he tried to use his good arm to raise his body a bit to look over into the garden to see what was making such a noise. But he couldn't move his arm, he found, because his arm was bound tight to his side by what felt like a scratchy wool blanket. And he realized that he wasn't cold anymore, because he was wrapped from neck to foot in the same scratchy blanket. Had someone found him? Why had they wrapped him up and just left him there? As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he became increasingly convinced that those were trees above him. They were trees, absolutely, no doubt about it. Two large pines, and half a dozen live oaks, and as he watched, it looked as if they slowly bent lower above him, the Spanish moss hanging from their branches touching the ground around him. He realized, too, that the ground around him had changed. Where he'd fallen in dirt, he now saw vines, weeds, peanuts, squash, a continuing swath of dirty greenery running from porch to garden. Beneath him as well, cushioning his back from the gravel and sand spurs that filled his yard. He could feel the plants moving, beneath him, around him, cradling him, wrapping him in their own stems and runners, Spanish moss beneath his head as a pillow, squash leaves keeping him warm, pines standing sentinel watch over him, the Low Country night silent except for the soft sound of the guardian plants, whispering "Shhhh . . ." as he lay wrapped in the cocoon of their foliage. He smiled, and his fingers gently probed the inside of the cocoon with a gardener's expert touch. That was a tomato blossom, wasn't it? And there's a peanut. And a thistle. Pine needles. Sage. He'd forgotten that he'd planted sage, years and years ago. He rubbed their leaves gently, working the soil of off their surfaces, tending them even as they tended him, gardening by night, warm in his own garden's embrace. ***** He was cold when Anne found him the next morning, his hands clenched into fists, his right leg and arm cocked at awkward angles from his body--but he was still breathing, and his pulse fluttered faintly beneath her fingers as she probed his neck and tried to rouse him. She'd ridden with him in the ambulance, and sat by his side as the emergency medical team tended to him, running IV's, getting oxygen into him, cutting his clothes away to assess the damage to his broken hip and dislocated shoulder. He'd kept his hands clenched all the while, and she sat at his side and gently massaged his fists until she was able to work them open. In each, she had found bruised leaves and twigs and pine needles, and matted strands of Spanish moss. ***** The nursing home wasn't so bad, really. He'd spent nearly two months in the hospital, first in intensive care, then in the rehabilitation unit, learning how to walk again, gaining strength in his damaged limbs, before moving to Palmetto Grove, where he had a private room with a window and a television. His room looked out over the Cooper River in Charleston, a couple of miles from Anne's house, and she came and saw him every day, sometimes twice. She'd taken his cats, and sometimes she brought one of them by to visit with him, and they all sat and watched game shows together. Or they gardened. Bill's room was chockablock with pots, each of them filled to capacity with healthy, thriving plants. They kept the rooms greenhouse warm at Palmetto Grove, and the plants loved the morning sun as it rose over the Cooper each day, the shadows of pine and live oak running across the lawn between the river and the nursing home, climbing the walls, then receding as the day moved on. He'd gone back to the cottage only once since Anne had boarded it up, taking nothing from the house but a picture of Harriet and an old photo of him and that woman, smiling together long, long ago. Harriet's picture hung on the wall over his television, and he put the other photo in his bedside table, taking it out and looking at it every now and again. He'd spent most of his time out in the garden that day when they'd last visited the cottage. It was browning under the winter sun, but he slowly walked its rows and carefully picked through the soil, looking for seed pods, shoots, sprouts, signs of life. He'd found a small pine sapling at its edge and had carefully dug it up, wrapping it in Spanish moss and placing it in a bucket until he could get it back to Palmetto Grove, where he'd replanted it, along with all of the seeds and plants he'd pulled from the garden itself. He didn't even know what most of the plants were as they sprouted and grew and seeded and died, and Anne periodically suggested that he replace those old weeds with flowers, or at least something pretty, but Bill just ignored her and tended to the wild things from his garden as lovingly as he'd once tended his squash and tomatoes and peanuts. A man needed a home, and a man needed a garden, and a man needed friends, and if a man had those things, then a man's life was pretty well complete, wasn't it? Or at least that's what Bill thought, as the shadows crept back down the lawn towards the Cooper, and as he sat in his chair, cat in his lap, Anne holding one hand, the other hand idly running through the soil at the base of the pine sapling, Harriet over the television, on which the wheel of fortune was spinning, spinning, spinning . . . ***** Home?